


Symbiosis

by thatgirloverthere



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff and Smut, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Romance, Slice of Life, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23987482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirloverthere/pseuds/thatgirloverthere
Summary: Years have come and gone and their relationship remains the same: the two of them are as close to each other, and as far away, as they have always been.
Relationships: Tsukishima Kei/Yamaguchi Tadashi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 261





	Symbiosis

**Author's Note:**

> gratuitous, cutesy smut. flowery run-on sentences galore. protect bb yamaguchi at all costs.

___

Yamaguchi counts one, two soft breaths before he finds the courage to clear his throat. He sits cross-legged on the floor of Tsukishima’s bedroom, and even though it’s Friday night and they could be out with the team, loitering at the Sakanoshita Store, they choose to make their way through coursework. A companionable silence stretches lazily between them. It’s late, but the window is open and the evening’s cool air feels blessed on Yamaguchi's neck.

Fanned out across the floor are Tsukishima’s notes, and he silently marks a separate piece of paper with bullet points, his neat script perfectly spaced and even as his pen scratches gently against the page. His breathing is the same, steady and even, and he makes no motion to show he notices, or cares, that Yamaguchi wants his attention. So instead, Yamaguchi pores over a dense passage in his biology textbook, rereading the same sentence over and over as the cogs in his mind work themselves into a steady rotation.

Years have come and gone and still he wonders, _Why me?_ He glances over at his friend, whose eyebrows are furrowed above thick spectacles. His gaze is focused on something far beyond his line of sight, spaced out, or in a daydream. Truthfully, and Yamaguchi knows this because he knows this look, and so many others that are the only signs of emotion that crack through an otherwise stoic exterior, Tsukishima is deep in thought, concentration forming a vein of tension in his forehead. Grappling with some question for which he has no answer, his grip on the pen remains firm but now hangs stagnant at his side, as he chews at the dry skin of his bottom lip. He catches Yamaguchi staring, and gives him a questioning look, eyes glinting with something unreadable. Still, he says nothing. Yamaguchi’s stomach flips hotly.

Tsukishima is steadfast and silent and crackles with a quiet power that is undeniable. His strength has always been something Yamaguchi admired, and sometimes, in a small, secret part of himself, deeply jealous of. There was no need for bravado, never did he succumb to the words that would make Yamaguchi crumble. There was no effort to prove this strength to others, never a question of it, and no need for further explanation. Tsukishima just _was_ , and something told Yamaguchi that he always would be, _that_ , whatever it was that was so conflictingly magnetic, so entrancing and infuriating, deep and unrelenting as the tides, distant and cold as the moon.

_In many ecosystems, differing species form complex symbiotic relationships to further their chances of survival, create social bonds, and acquire resources,_ Yamaguchi reads.

_Organisms seek out others that may benefit them in these ways. In some cases, only one side enjoys the benefits, to the detriment of the other. In others, both offer their skills and come away with something gained. In even rarer cases, predator and prey transcend the status quo to work together._

The glossy textbook image shows the bared jaws of a crocodile, in which a small bird is perched, picking for scraps between the curve of two sharp, glinting teeth.

In a place deep within his mind, Yamaguchi questions the span of his own loyalty, his unflinching trust. _Why me?_

Years have come and gone and their position remains the same: the two of them are as close to each other, and yet still as far away, as they have always been. Spread out on the floor of his best friend's bedroom, as they have been hundreds or thousands of times before, he wonders how Tsukishima would react if he reached out, gently, and touched him. He aches with a deep, unfounded desire to do so. Something inside himself tells him, _Tsukki wouldn’t mind. Not here, when it’s just us. What harm would it do? It’s him._

Sometimes, their shoulders brush in passing as they walk the same road home after practice. The streetlights guide them almost the entire way back, periodically casting light over the shrinking distance between them. Sometimes, after they reach their neighborhood and the evergreen trees shut out even the moonlight, Yamaguchi presses closer into the touch than he should dare. Tsukishima allows it, and then he turns and says goodbye.

He wonders how they have evolved beyond the need for words, for explanation, and yet, all he wants to do is explain. Explain his confusion, his loyalty, his feelings, his desire, speak a million words and ask a million questions he is not sure he can bear to dream of answers to. _What would Tsukki say? Would he even say anything, would he laugh?_ His thoughts beg him to fill the silence with noise, to ask, _Tsukki?_ To hear his friend’s quiet murmur of acknowledgement, to ask those million questions, offer a million parts of himself, a million things he would say and do if only it would please Tsukki, to hear a million noises spill from his lips, to hear a million times, _Tadashi._

Instead, he reads further, learning that the roots of mistletoe, _Viscum album_ , latch onto healthy trees, inhibiting growth and stripping nutrients from the bark. The image shows a cartoon bundle, wrapped in red ribbon, hanging in the corner of the page. Below it, an annotation explains its significance in Western holidays. Yamaguchi blushes, imagining what a kiss like that might be like, what a kiss with Tsukki would be like. He’d probably have to lean down, meeting Yamaguchi’s height halfway. Maybe he’d close his eyes, or maybe he’d keep them open, so as not to miss a thing. Maybe it would be chaste and quick, a soft brush of their lips, shy as new lovers. Or maybe it would be hungry, wild as years of waiting, wondering came to a head. Maybe Tsukki would grab him, squeeze a bit too tight, maybe his tongue would slip against Yamaguchi’s, and maybe he would use his teeth…

Yamaguchi swallows thickly and keeps reading. Mistletoe is lauded for its ability to stay green and vibrant even in the deep winter, but only because of its parasitism can it survive. Stealing water and nutrients from the soil, fused to the tree's stability like a leech, not strong enough otherwise to survive on its own. Something about this thought makes Yamaguchi upset.

Tsukishima labors over a sigh, breaking the silence. His pen has resumed its furtive, tranquil scratching, making its way closer and closer to the bottom of the page. Yamaguchi aches in his wonder, and struggles to keep up with his mind, racing with thoughts of reaching out, just to touch, just once. Just to see.

"Tsukki?”

He hums noncommittally, pen still inking short blips of texts along the page.

“D-do you think I’m… a parasite?” 

Tsukishima quirks a brow, and the rest of his expression remains unreadable as ever. He takes a moment, as if to mull over his answer, his eyes never leaving his notes, as if somehow, they hold all the answers. When he looks up, his eyes, molten gold and cunning, look amused. Yamaguchi feels deeply, embarrassingly, thrillingly exposed.

“What do you mean?” he asks, as though he needs further clarification. In truth, he takes pleasure in watching Yamaguchi fumble over his words some more, burning hot with a blush that overtakes the soft dusting of freckles along his nose. Yamaguchi stares at the bookshelf, his eyes tracing over Tsukishima’s paleontology books, his neatly filed volumes of manga, an unburned candle. He asks again, so quietly that it is only a whisper.

“You know, like a parasite. Um, a burden? To you. Have I… have I ever been?”

Tsukishima is silent.

A million other questions, and a million other answers to, _"what do you mean?"_ die at Yamaguchi’s lips.

The walls of Tsukishima’s room tell a story, and in this chapter they are bare save for an annual calendar pinned by the door. Yamaguchi remembers his Karasuno posters, back when his brother had been on the team, his dinosaur mobile that hung from the ceiling, his Lego sets kept under the bed. He remembers when they were young, when they would lay their sleeping bags in tandem on the floor, when they would set up a blanket tent outside under the stars. He looks at Tsukishima and sees a million ways their story ended up here, and he desperately wants to write more to it, to add more and more until he has volumes.

“To me? No.” Tsukishima says finally, but slowly, as if afraid to say too much. "Parasites… take. They take, and take, and give nothing in return. You don’t take anything. And you give.” He gestures vaguely, looking uncomfortable. "Things. To me and other people. So, no. Parasites are selfish.”

Yamaguchi blushes at the thought of the things he would take, the things he _wants_ to take, if only they would mean Tsukki would give him something in return. And, _oh,_ the things he would give, too, if only Tsukki would take, and take, and take...

“Sometimes, you’re selfish,” Yamaguchi says, feeling bold, hot under the soft cotton of his tee-shirt. “But I don’t think you’re a parasite. You… give. To me, too. To a lot of people. You just don’t show it right.”

This makes Tsukishima look up, this time directly into Yamaguchi’s eyes, a challenge. Something steels in his posture, taut as a bowstring, and suddenly, sags. He leans against the edge of his bed, sly as a cat and lips quirked into a very fitting smirk.

“Selfish. Is that what you meant when you called me lame?” he asks, not unkindly, his tongue curling around the words. Yamaguchi burns at the thought of that night.

“I never called you lame,” he replies sheepishly. The analog clock on the nightstand, ticking urgently, is suddenly very interesting. He knows Tsukishima sees all of the emotions that lay bare across his face, but still, unsure of himself, he tries to hide them. “But, you were acting like it.”

Truthfully, Tsukishima remembers the night perfectly, and often replays it in his mind. He thinks about the urgency of Yamaguchi’s eyes, intense with a fire that Tsukishima had only imagined before then. He thinks about the grip of Yamaguchi’s clammy hands on his shirt, teeth bared and furious. He swallows, and thinks of how much he’d like Yamaguchi to look like that again, to look at _him_ like that again, feral and wild. The moon had cast a pale glint against his freckles, perfectly spaced as stars in the night sky, and Tsukishima remembers thinking something very soft, and then something dirty.

“I remember,” he says airily, “And I remember you asked me what else I need, besides my pride.”

A pause, and this time Yamaguchi meets his gaze. For a moment, the air around them stills and the tick of the clock at Tsukishima’s bedside ticks and ticks and ticks them further along towards the end or the start. He looks so small, or maybe he makes himself seem smaller. Tsukishima wonders how things might be different, were he smaller too, and silently thanks his height. He thinks about being eye level with Yamaguchi, with anyone on the team, even Hinata, poor guy, and shudders. Looking down on others feels easier than seeing eye-to-eye, than looking up. He could get lost in sound of Yamaguchi’s soft breathing, in the soft hazel of his eyes, always looking up at him, pleading him with some unknown request. Tsukishima likes looking down on other people, his vantage point from above is a comfort to him. But strangely, he especially likes to look down on Yamaguchi, to take in his slight frame, his nose smattered in freckles, his soft cowlicks stubbornly curling at the crown of his head.

And yet, Tsukishima knows now that there is a fire beneath the exterior, something hidden deep inside that grazes the surface, tentatively, whenever Yamaguchi looks his way like that. He is silent still.

“I never gave you an answer,” Tsukishima continues. “I’m not sure it would be the one you want to hear.”

Yamaguchi’s eyes close. He says, softly, like a prayer, “ _please,"_ and feels Tsukishima move slowly across the carpet, hears the soft rustle of forgotten pages. His eyes are still closed, and Tsukishima wonders, distantly, if he should kiss him.

Instead he continues to speak, gently, as though to a small animal he could scare off. “I am prideful. I am selfish. You’re not wrong,” he leans closer, gripping the plush carpet, and he can see Yamaguchi tense with anticipation, eyes still closed. “I am mean. But you never judged me for the way I am.”

He stops, wondering if he should apologize, wonders if he’s ever truly hurt Yamaguchi’s feelings. But then he sees that his best friend is right there, in the same place he’s always been, right next to Tsukishima, trusting him, faithful and true, and more perfect than he can bear. He feels like a fool, and he feels like he could move heaven and earth if only it meant he could watch Yamaguchi glow under the streetlights again, hear, _It’s okay, Tsukki_ again. He wants to see how far they will go for each other, how far they can bend without breaking. He wants to wreck him, wants to push him, closer and closer to the edge until the point of no return feels obsolete. The true surge of his pride comes, and his pride is Yamaguchi, his unwavering, steadfast companion, the ebb and flow of the tide yielding to the moon. Something inside him cracks, and he imagines frantic waves crashing against the beach, the soft sand steadily crumbling. Something shifts irreparably, and Tsukishima cannot bear to be so foolish any longer.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think that somewhere, deep down,” his voice is low, its teasing lilt well-practiced, “You like it."

Yamaguchi moans softly, a broken, needful sound. Tsukishima catalogues this noise, thinks of all the others he could, he will, draw from his best friend's lips, now that he knows the scope of their trust. Yamaguchi opens his eyes and they are blown wide, pupils black and searching, questioning in their wet, shining way. Tsukishima smiles, languid and feline, like a cat toying with its meal. He quirks his head appraisingly, and leans forward, just slightly. His eyes flick to Yamaguchi’s lips, a silent question, and he feels his mouth go dry.

Loudly, Yamaguchi’s stomach breaks the tension, protesting urgently and lurching with the sound of hunger. He looks franticly at Tsukishima, a light flush of embarrassment spreading across his cheeks.

Tsukishima clicks his tongue, and pulls away. Yamaguchi feels a hollow regret, until Tsukishima looks up at him again, the edge of a smile sparking behind his eyes. “We should eat something,” he says, gathering his notesheets into a neat pile.

It’s even later than before, and Tsukishima’s house is warm but silent. The walls of the hallway are lined with old family photographs and botanical artwork. Yamaguchi wants to linger, reminisce on the way Tsukishima’s smile fades as the photos grow more recent. Akiteru stays in Tokyo, now, Yamaguchi thinks, but he hasn’t seen him in a while. Some of the photos show Tsukishima’s father, so impossibly tall he seems to loom out of the frame. He works overseas, or at least that’s what Tsukishima told him once, many years back. Something about the way he said it, eyes looking far away behind his glasses, told Yamaguchi it was not a topic for further discussion. At the end of the hall, a photo from Tsukishima's parents’ wedding hangs, lopsided. The newlyweds’ smiles are happy, if a bit lopsided themselves.

They make their way down the stairs and Tsukishima’s mother sits on the couch by the window, reading, and has not moved from this position since greeting them on their way in. A glass of wine, half finished, sits beside her, and the radio is set to a station playing American love songs, folksy and shrill.

_Why’d you have to be so cruel,_ the singer’s tinny voice pleads, _can’t you see all I want is you?_

She smiles brightly at Yamaguchi, and he can’t help but see so much of Akiteru in her eyes, in her features. He wonders briefly what their father must be like, how Tsukishima must take more after him. Tsukishima’s mother is lovely, has always been very kind to Yamaguchi, but he can tell that the emptiness of the house weighs on her. Gingerly, he smiles back. “There’s rice in the cooker,” she says, and starts to rise with a practiced politeness.

“We’ll help ourselves,” Tsukishima says, already moving towards the kitchen. Tsukishima’s mother hums in the same noncommittal way as her son, and sits again, turning back to her book.

Tsukishima releases the lid on the rice cooker, residual steam lightly fogging his glasses. His mother has already eaten, a neat corner of the rice is missing save for a few grains stuck to the bottom of the pot. Later, he thinks, when she falls asleep on the couch, which is not infrequent, he’ll collect her wine glass and do the dishes.

He hands two ceramic bowls and a rice paddle to Yamaguchi, who dishes out a serving into each bowl. He returns with a container of leftover curry from the fridge, turning on the stovetop and plopping the congealed block into a saucepan. With the same quiet intensity with which he does all things, he stirs. When he’s done, and the kitchen is filled with a comforting, savory smell, he flicks off the gas and serves them both- Yamaguchi first, and then himself.

Yamaguchi thanks him for the meal, and thinks how much he’d like to make a routine of this. He eats with a grateful enthusiasm. It is not lost on him that Tsukishima watches him almost the entire time, eyes tracing the motion of his chopsticks from his bowl to his lips and back again. He coyly tongues a wad of rice from its edge, dragging the tip along the dark, lacquered wood. Tsushima’s eyes burn and they never leave him. Yamaguchi feels very conscious of the way sweat is collecting along the curve of his spine, and silently he wills Tsukishima to chew faster. 

They eat their meal in silence, the sound of the radio filtering into the kitchen.

_I can hardly wait to hold you, feel my arms around you,_ croons Nina Simone, _how long I have waited, waited just to love you._

___

After they finish, they return to Tsukishima’s bedroom. Yamaguchi stares at the carpet, the bed, his overnight bag lying by the door. Even these small things, part of what should seem so familiar, feel electric and new. Possibilities, some wretched, run through his mind. He’d kissed his mother goodbye this morning, before leaving for school. _I’m staying over at Tsukki’s,_ he’d said, _I won’t be home tonight_ , the same way he has a million times before. How could he have known that this night would be the one that was different?

Tsukishima chuckles softly.

“Are you planning your escape?” 

An out, if Yamaguchi were foolish enough to take it.

“No, my parents know I’m spending the night here.” Spending the night. He thinks of all the times he’s done this before, and wonders why, after so many times he’s dreamed of this moment, he’s still nervous.

Tsukishima makes an approving noise, and Yamaguchi wants to hear that again, wants to please him again and again. Yamaguchi takes an awkward seat at the edge of the bed, past familiarity, all the times he’s been here before, flopped onto it with no heed to it being _Tsukki’s bed,_ are gone from his mind. Tsukishima looms in the doorway for a moment, and then, closes it behind him, the click of the lock an intoxicating promise.

Distantly, the song continues, _Let this be just the start, of so many nights like this._ Yamaguchi swallows thickly.

Tsukishima comes towards the bed, and, strangely, looks shy. He takes a seat next to Yamaguchi, close enough that he can feel the solid warmth of his body radiate between them.

Yamaguchi turns to the right, looking over his shoulder and Tsukishima sits still, looking at him expectantly. He can see something hesitant in Tsukishima’s face, stopping him from moving any closer, willing his friend to close the gap. There is a silent intensity to the moment that defies explanation, and so Yamaguchi leans in, meeting him halfway.

_For so long, I dreamed of this,_ comes the melody through the walls. Downstairs, Tsukishima’s mother pours a second glass of wine.

The first brush of their lips together is shy and soft, the small scratch of faint stubble gentle against Yamaguchi’s chin. He clutches Tsukishima’s wiry, solid forearm, and feels like he might fall off of the bed or float upwards to the ceiling, but a sure grasp at his thigh weights him back down. Their lips slot together in infinite ways as they test out the feeling, finding the perfect fit. Eventually, they single out their rhythm and settle together like lock and key, Yamaguchi’s full lower lip tucked between the thin seal of Tsukishima’s kiss. His stubble burns hotter and more insistently against Yamaguchi’s chin, a sandpaper kiss, and this may be better than hitting the perfect float, better than the thrum of a resounding _Yes!_ across their side of the court, better than a winning popsicle stick.

Their mouths open, bodies flush and sparking with the new sensation, and Yamaguchi feels like he might be high. He opens his mouth to breathe, to steal back some of the air that recycles between them in quick, huffing pants, and suddenly their tongues lave together in a slick, filthy motion, and Yamaguchi feels out of breath like he’s done penalty flying drills, back to back to back.

Feeling bold, Tsukishima skirts his hands into the dip of Yamaguchi’s hips, gasping out a sharp breath as his fingertips find soft skin to press into. It’s much too hot, all at once, and as Tsukishima trails his tongue across Yamaguchi’s jaw, he cannot decide if he needs Tsukishima to speed up, or slow down, or stop altogether so that his brain can catch up. Tsukishima bites down, perhaps as a reminder of the control he holds over Yamaguchi, over his desire, and so he whines, arching his neck further, presenting it as a prize to be marked and claimed, and accepts that he may lose himself. 

_Breathe_ , Yamaguchi thinks, his mind racing and his heart frantic as Tsukishima moves from his jaw down to the curve of his neck, where it slopes to meet his collarbone. He feels like he is drowning, so wet and it feels so hot, it’s too hot and he’s not sure why he’s still wearing his shirt right now.

Tsukishima drags his teeth across the edge of his tee-shirt's collar, and so Yamaguchi starts to pull it off himself, wants it off and wants to feel the press of their hot skin together, wants Tsukishima’s teeth to discover more places to tease, to bite. He wills himself to focus on the moment, but his mind begs the question, _what next?_ He wonders what Tsukishima plans, if he will stop, and he feels torn between the desire to give in, to fight back.

He should have known better, prepared himself to be so completely lost in this sensation. He surges forward, and suddenly wants to be brave, prove to Tsukishima how much he wants this, has wanted this for so long. So, he gathers the fabric of his tee-shirt in his hands and pulls it over his own head, and drops it unceremoniously onto the floor. Tsukishima looks momentarily dizzy, eyes gliding over the newly exposed flesh, the light dusting of freckles at the top of his clavicle.

He silently thrills at this realization, at the feeling of Tsukishima’s eyes on him, looking so hungry. He wrings at the edge of Tsukishima’s sweatshirt, silently pleading for it to come off, for more skin to shine under the soft light of the desk lamp. He complies and Yamaguchi feels the dry weight of his tongue when Tsukishima’s smooth, unblemished torso comes into the light. A faint dusting of hair, baby-soft and light like corn silk, rests between the dip of his pectorals. The same hair, _and it looks so soft, Yamaguchi wants to feel it under his tongue_ , leads a golden trail below the dip of Tsukishima’s belly button, disappearing at the band of his sweatpants.

Yamaguchi’s mouth feels dryer still and he licks his lips, watching Tsukishima’s eyes follow the motion. He looks brazen and wild, and Yamaguchi’s small ego swells with pride at having made his friend look like that, lips wet and parted, hair a manic blitz of blond, looking desperate for it. In retaliation, Tsukishima pushes him back onto the bed, palms firm against his freckled, sinewy chest. He's seen Yamaguchi shirtless before, whether changing in the storage room, or swimming in the summertime, or just sweating, but seeing him like this feels intoxicating, and Tsukishima aches with how bad he wants to make him come undone.

Their hips grind together, and Yamaguchi feels like the wind is knocked out of him. It should not be a shock to him, but he sees the press of hardness against the tie of Tsukishima’s sweatpants, the faint impression of its shape tantalizing. The sting of Tsukishima’s fingernails at his hips is a live wire, digging red crescent moons into the soft skin. He wants to see more of him, feel more of him, bare his body and soul until there is nothing left to hide between them.

“Tsukki,” Yamaguchi stutters, and barely recognizes the fever pitch of his own wanton, punch-drunk voice. His hands grapple with the lithe muscles of Tsukishima’s upper arms, toned and forged by the tension of many skillful blocks. They feel solid, like they could be a place where Yamaguchi is safe.

Tsukishima growls, low in his throat and silences him with another searing, wet kiss. His devious fingers work their way along the curves of a slim waist, and stop where his hips flow down into sun-kissed thighs. Yamaguchi feels small, shy, under Tsukishima’s dark focus, and his hands fly up to rest at the hollow of his throat, instinctually comforting himself. Tsukishima’s tongue moves downward to join his grip on Yamaguchi’s waist, licking his way across a smooth, tanned chest. Something about the heat of his skin, the taste of faint sweat, and the intoxicating smell that is Yamaguchi, amplified a million times, drives him wild.

“I go crazy when I think of you,” he admits in a dark, cracking voice, pressing soft bites along Yamaguchi’s torso. “You have no idea."

He moans as Tsukishima’s tongue skirts the edge of his nipple, laving in a wide circle above his heart. Yamaguchi keens and squirms, hands flying to clutch at Tsukishima’s soft, silky hair, aching for something he has never felt or known, but wants desperately. His hands continue to roam over the planes of Tsukishima’s body, scratching softly at the base of his neck, where his hair crops shorter into the scratchy fuzz from a buzzer’s shave. His hands continue their exploration down his back and sides, pausing tentatively where the soft line of hair on his belly disappears. He strokes experimentally, and it feels coarser than the hair on his head, slightly darker and thicker. Thoughts heavy and slurred with desire, his fingers continue their way down, until finally, gently, he presses his palm to Tsukishima’s hardness, gripping its length lightly. He swallows, and his mouth is watering with he thought of more, of what is to come.

Tsukishima reels back as though he’s been shot, panting furiously. He looks out of it, dazed and glassy-eyed.

“Sorry, Tsukki!” hisses Yamaguchi hurriedly, worried he’s pressed too far. Instead, Tsukishima kisses him, longer, slower and more gently than before.

“Don’t be sorry,” he whispers, and his voice sounds hoarse, so low and rough, like the smoothest trickle of ice melting. He nips lightly at Yamaguchi’s ear, asking, “Do you want to touch me?”

Yamaguchi thinks that he’s wanted nothing more, in his most secret fantasies would wish for nothing less. He nods, and again presses his palm into the impression of Tsukishima’s cock, and he blushes at the depravity of his own thoughts. Tsukishima hisses out a sharp breath, and leans back on his forearms against his pillow at the top of the bed. Looking down on Yamaguchi expectantly, he takes his best friend's hands in his own, _they are so small, and warm,_ and brings them both to rest where the rippling skin of soft abs meets fabric. Spurred on by the encouraging, nasty glint in Tsukishima’s eyes, Yamaguchi hooks his index fingers under the elastic band of his sweatpants.

He stares at first, drinking in the sight of Tsukishima laid out before him, chest red and splotchy, breathing hoarse. The trail of golden hair leading down, down, down stops and collects in a plush bundle, curly and dense, framing his cock. Yamaguchi swallows and is suddenly sharply aware of his own arousal, grinding his own hips down into the bedspread, thrilling at the glorious friction.

It’s thick, much thicker than Yamaguchi’s own, and maybe a bit longer. A single vein protrudes from the otherwise smooth, pink skin, and again Yamaguchi’s mouth waters. The tip, flushed and red and alive, glistens with wetness. He looks up at Tsukishima, who looks down at him, and they both pause momentarily, knowing this is the point of no return.

Yamaguchi attempts to gather his guts, running his palm down the length, grip light and unsure. “Tsukki, what should I,” he stammers, overwhelmed by the gravity of this moment he’s feeling, “How do I….”

Tsukishima looks down at him fondly, almost pleased, and Yamaguchi is silently grateful.

“Just touch me like you would touch yourself,” he replies, smirking, golden irises so overshot by his pupils that they look black. “You know how to do that, don’t you?”

Yamaguchi burns, thinking that of course he has, and feels terribly transparent, as though Tsukishima somehow knows all of the utterly depraved things he thinks about when he does so, knows how he really only thinks about _him._

He gives a slow, languid pump up the length of it, watching precum swell in a glistening, liquid bead at the tip. Tsukishima gives a small moan, and spurred on with the desire to hear more noises spill from his lips, Yamaguchi strokes more insistently, watching with a hazy fascination as Tsukishima’s hips twitch with rhythm of the motion, small, desperate noises clawing their way from his throat. Enjoying the feeling in his fingers’ thick grasp, Yamaguchi licks experimentally at the hard length of bone protruding from Tsukishima’s hip. He seems to like it, fisting the sheets and huffing, glasses askew, so Yamaguchi lets his tongue explore, trailing to the unkempt patch of hair at the base. He smells sweat, and musk, and something so terrifyingly arousing that it can only be the scent categorized as _Tsukki_ , and Yamaguchi thinks that he could get drunk off of it.

He gives a small, testing lick along the length, loosening his grasp slightly to slot his tongue between the grip of his fingers. Tsukishima thrashes in pleasure, and when Yamaguchi throws caution to the wind and sucks at the head, leaking and shining red, he clasps a hand over his own mouth, a muted whine passing treacherously through.

Yamaguchi has never done this before, could never even dream to be doing it to the subject of his most involved fantasies, but seeing Tsukishima in such a state, sweating and breathless for him, and only him, he feels like he can do anything, or at least this much. He bobs deeper now, past the gentle curve of the tip and further down the thick, smooth base. His fingers roam where his tongue cannot reach, stroking lightly against the swell of Tsukishima’s balls, thick with the heady scent of sweat and lightly fuzzy. When he replaces the touch of his fingers with his tongue, lapping gently, Tsukishima hums softly, sounding very satisfied. Head foggy with arousal, Yamaguchi sucks lightly, testing the weight of them on his tongue, right hand stroking from base to tip all the while.

He continues, listening to Tsukishima’s breath hitch higher and higher as his strokes grow faster, frenzied and sloppy as his tongue matches the rhythm, drooling wet pools that gather in the hair at the base. He feels Tsukishima tensing, taut and straining underneath his skin, but it still startles him when Tsukishima groans, hips jerking, biting his fist as he comes. Yamaguchi is entranced by the look of bliss that passes through his features, the crescendo of need reaching upwards, higher and higher until he is spent and sags against the pillow again, panting and sticky across his belly. The look on his face, sated and relaxed, turns to awe as he watches Yamaguchi’s tongue, _devious, nasty little thing,_ trail through the mess, tasting.

The taste feels foreign to Yamaguchi, bitter and savory but not unpleasant, and so he takes pleasure in cleaning what he can reach from his fingers, from the soft trail of hair to which he presses a chaste kiss, from the slope of Tsukishima’s abs, from the bones of his hips. The insistent pressure of his own arousal sears through him suddenly, and so he wriggles against the smooth expanse of the comforter, desperate for friction, bucking against it.

Tsukishima watches him through the window of his steamed glasses, chest heaving through the aftershocks of his orgasm.

“Stop,” he orders, firm and definitive, and Yamaguchi whines at the way his voice cuts through the thick air of the room, basking in the tremor of heat that shoots through him. He knows better than to disobey, and so he reluctantly leans back, seated upright at the foot of the bed. He looks down, and a spot of wetness teases him through the cotton of his shorts.

He looks up, and Tsukishima’s eyes are also honed in on that spot of wetness, concentrating, quite like how he looks at competitors through the mesh of the volleyball net, sizing them up. He stalks forward on his knees, pressing his palms into the mattress and crowding into Yamaguchi’s space. Feeling the wooden base of the bed against his neck, Yamaguchi falls back, and Tsukishima wastes no time in clambering on top of him, looming over his waist as his hands come to rest on either side of his thighs.

“You’re going to come for me,” he says, and it’s not a question. Before Yamaguchi can think to moan, to say yes, to thank any divine being that hasn’t forsaken him for filth, Tsukishima is sliding off his shorts, boxers following close behind. Suddenly he is starkly naked against the open air of the room, and the breeze snaking in from the window sends a chill of goosebumps across his skin.

He does not have a moment to feel embarrassed, to feel shame for his nakedness, before Tsukishima swallows him down to the hilt, and it takes more self control than he thought he had to stifle his cry, biting down into the skin of his knuckle. He does not have a moment to think where Tsukishima learned to do something nasty like this, with much more finesse than he had himself, so instead he drowns in the sensation of Tsukishima’s mouth on him, the vibration of his pleased moans reverberating through his skin.

Yamaguchi stares at the ceiling, at the bookshelf, at Tsukishima's notes on the desk. His own biology textbook lies forgotten on the floor.

Tsukishima continues to suck at Yamaguchi, enjoying the weight of him on his tongue, the scent of skin and sweat. His hands roll at Yamaguchi’s balls gently, the other guiding his thighs open, wider, until there is no part of Yamaguchi that can be hidden. Slowly, treacherously, his tongue dips lower, and lower, and before Yamaguchi can ask, _What are you doing, Tsukki,_ his tongue snakes over his tight, trembling opening, just a gentle press of the tip of his tongue against the very warm, soft skin.

Every thought that Yamaguchi might have had goes flying from his mind. Tsukishima alternates between gentle flicks, wide and wet circles, laving his tongue over the swell of Yamaguchi’s ass, leaving no stretch of skin untasted. Yamaguchi blathers nonsense into his fist, clutching at the sheets with his left hand, furiously trembling. It feels so good, it feels so wrong, but it feels so right and Yamaguchi thinks he might die, thinks he might have completely lost his mind had he never felt a sensation like this, felt Tsukishima like this.

“One day, I’m going to spend hours doing this,“ Tsukishima says between licks, “Going to lick you open until you’re wet enough to take my fingers.” Another lick at the rim, his tongue ghosting over the fluttering pucker, before pushing past the muscle, deeper and deeper until Yamaguchi’s mind goes completely blank, and his focus is enslaved by the hot press of Tsukishima’s forehead against his dick, the rim of his glasses pressing cold into his thigh. Tsukishima's tongue is tracing devious patterns along the dip of his crack, dragging cruelly over his hole. “We’ll work at it, get you up from one to two and three,” he presses his fingers harder into Yamaguchi’s thigh, and he keens. “Until you open up nice and loose and take all of me inside you. Do you want that?"

Yamaguchi can’t begin to process this, from where Tsukishima is spewing this delicious filth, so lost in the sensation of his tongue lapping against him, nose pressed against the dip of his balls. His body is betraying him, he is so close to coming, but he would give nothing more than to remain in this delicious limbo, subject to whatever Tsukishima will allow him, his Tsukki, taking such good care of him, always…

He tenses, and it feels like his breath is stolen from him, he stutters out a final gasp and comes, splattering hot and thick across his chest. For a moment, a startling clarity washes over him, and his own anxious heartbeat slows to a steady thrum. Tsukishima grabs his boxers from the floor, wiping the mess away, and Yamaguchi is too boneless to protest the mess. He is suddenly overcome by a wave of emotion, wants nothing more now than to be close to Tsukishima, wrapped up in his arms.

Sensing this, or maybe just wanting it himself, Tsukishima pulls Yamaguchi towards himself, resting his head against his chest, inhaling the scent of his messy hair, sticking up in all directions. Yamaguchi slots his cheek into the dip of Tsukishima’s pectoral, feels the steady, shallow beat of his heart, watches his breath catch at the small, curling hairs of his chest. For a while, neither of them speaks, the slow rotation of love songs muffled through the wall. Yamaguchi thinks that maybe he’ll want to talk about this, just so that his mind can begin to process these new developments, just so that he can hear Tsukishima admit he feels the same. But for now he is content right where he is, and feels very safe and warm.

Tsukishima rubs lazy circles along Yamaguchi’s back, and he thinks again that he could move heaven and earth if only to watch Yamaguchi glow under the streetlights, to feel the press of his shoulder beside him.

“Tsukki,” Yamaguchi says softly, not so much for a need to say anything at all, but just to hear how it sounds now, precious and new and sacred.

“Tadashi," Tsukishima whispers back, into Yamaguchi’s hair, _Tadashi_ , like his mouth is trying to practice the feeling of saying it out loud. _Tadashi_ , he says, like a prayer.

Yamaguchi murmurs a soft sound into the curve of Tsukishima’s neck, where he has discovered that his cheek rests perfectly. Together they fall back into the same companionable silence, the only sound their soft breathing in tandem, the slow beating of their hearts.

____

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed, feel free to leave comments or kudos!
> 
> wishing whoever may read this happiness, peace and prosperity.


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